


COMPLETION

by becominghistoric



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Police Brutality, References to Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, References to Drug Use, Vomiting, description of death, it's all happy in here!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:57:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/becominghistoric/pseuds/becominghistoric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[A genetic mutation is spreading and affecting people across the world...]</p><p>“89% complete” the polite, robotic voice announced to Bahorel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Percentages

“89% complete” the polite, robotic voice announced to Bahorel. He sighed and walked away from the body scanner, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

“No mobile phones in the scanning area.” Snapped a nearby nurse. He smiled genially at her, while raising his middle finger and simultaneously texting Grantaire, and was too busy being impressed with his own multitasking capabilities to react to the string of frustrated profanities he received in return. Medical staff were all highly strung nowadays, and patient, friendly care wasn’t too high up on their list of priorities anymore. Bahorel had always been especially good at not giving a fuck, and at 10% closer to Completion than he was at his last weekly scan, all he cared about now was finding the best person to get him drunk. Fast. He finished his text to Granatire and hit send.

***

Since the first outbreak, Bahorel had learnt a lot about so-called “Completion”. Joly had explained to him, in his gentle but direct future-doctor-voice, that the DNA of some people had, inexplicably, begun to change. Cell by cell these alterations would occur silently, without symptoms, across your entire body until, at 100%, they all switched on at once. Then you die.

Ironically, since it had become apparent that this was a pandemic, Joly hadn’t complained about an ailment once. Some things put a series of blocked noses and sore throats in perspective. The imminent death of people you know, and many more you don’t, is one of those things.

When the first people started dying, Grantaire had said that it was “just the cesspit of humanity finally caving in on itself”, and grinned delightedly at Enjolras’ glare. Then one evening Madame Hucheloup had been serving him his usual double of “anything strong enough to knock out Bahorel”, and the next minute she was on the floor bleeding from... well, everywhere. Small beads of blood appeared from every pore, then trickled out and merged together until eventually she was covered. She was dead within a minute, but the bleeding continued. The next day they’d all gone for testing and the voice had declared each of them safe, until Bahorel had rushed in late and had received an answer of “12% complete”. Grantaire hadn’t made any further comments about the potential cause of Completion since.

There was a lot of Bahorel to complete. He’d had a lot longer than most to process his approaching death, but he still wasn’t sure if this was a blessing or a curse. He felt like half a person. Everyone was already preparing themselves to lose him and, no matter how hard they tried not to, they behaved differently around him. Except Jehan. Jehan still tucked poems into his pockets and excitedly told him about the bedraggled, half-blind pigeon that he’d befriended, and hugged him just as tightly as before.

Naturally, the kids completed the fastest. Éponine constantly shot terrified glances at Gavroche and hugged him far too often for his liking, but he was smart and put up with it for her benefit. Every time the scanner claimed them both to be “0% complete” he would cling to his sister with equal ferocity.

***

At 95%, he had been itching for a fight; tension is rife across the entire planet, so the police are coming down harder than usual on any type of drunken brawl, nipping them in the bud in the hope of preventing the mass panic, that swells and threatens to break loose everyday. For once, he had been loath to waste any time in a police cell. He had precious little time to waste. So he avoided picking fights with the nearest drunken idiot, and instead clenched and unclenched his fists, occasionally alternating to gripping his pint glass tightly.

Jehan had been watching his hands all evening, and finally grabbed them and met his eyes with an intense, but deliberately unreadable look. Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows “Everything alright there, boys?”

“We’re going outside.” Replied Jehan, dragging Bahorel after him and ignoring Courfeyrac’s winks. When they reached the secluded alley behind the Musain, Jehan regarded him silently, and he knew that he must have looked as twitchy as Grantaire when he’s anything close to sober.

Suddenly, a fist collided with his jaw. For a moment he was too stunned to do anything, but he looked at Jehan and saw steely resolve and encouragement in the gaze he received in return. There was kindness, too; nothing Jehan ever did was without kindness.

He understood now, understood that this was the only way for him to settle his nerves without causing trouble. But although he knew that Jehan could hold his own in any fight, the first punch still felt like hitting Bambi, and for a few seconds the fight was awkward and restricted. Then something snapped and, oh god, how could it really be his fists hitting that lovely face, but he was unable to make them stop.

After a few desperate minutes his limbs and brain reconnected and he sank to the ground. Then strong, slim fingers intertwined with his reddened knuckles, and his entire body shook with sobs, but he could hear Jehan saying “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay” with such force and care, he couldn’t help but feel calmer.

It wasn’t okay. But it was better.

***

It’s a week later. Bahorel is glowing, he has never felt happier. He is coming ever closer to the end of everything, but he couldn’t care less.

Earlier that day he’d told Jehan what he should’ve said as soon as he found out that he was completing. Or a year ago, when some moron had been mocking Combeferre’s glasses, and  Jehan had warned him not to with an impromptu haiku, then promptly knocked him out when he failed to heed the warning, and Bahorel had realised that there was no-one in the world that he could ever adore more. Jehan had said it back, in one rushed breath, as if he’d been holding it in for just as long.

The next minute, he can’t see anything, but he has the vague notion that he’s fallen to the ground. He can hear muffled noises of panic, but above that rises Jehan’s voice, soothing him, and he clings onto the sound.

The last thing that Bahorel feels, the last thing he will ever be aware of again, is the press of Jehan’s lips against his forehead.


	2. Thorns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [A genetic mutation is spreading and affecting people across the world...]
> 
> The image of Jehan’s lips reddened by bahorel’s blood fills his mind, and he begins to walk back towards Jehan, breaking into a run as the panic rises in him, and suddenly Jehan’s screams are joining the cacophony of rain drops. People are staring. Three police officers are staring. He grabs Jehan and tries to cover him just as the first truncheon comes down.

When it all first started, they had gathered around the tv screen in Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s small student flat, and watched politician after politician give out plastic concern and hollow words. After the fifth one had provided bland advice and offered their “prayers for those suffering”, Bahorel had laughed.

“Fuck their prayers.” Everyone had looked at him as he grinned and shook his head in disbelief at the tv. Realising that all eyes were on him, he continued “If any of you start to complete, I’m not praying for you. I’ll be sat right next to you, while we raise our middle fingers to whatever deity it is that’s decided to stir shit up. I don’t want prayers, I want actions. Hope is fine, if you do something to pursue it. But prayers are empty, because if there’s anyone up there...” he pointed skywards, with such force that Jehan thought any higher power ‘up there’, if they had any semblance of sense, was sure to flinch “they either aren’t fucking listening, or they’re doing this to us.” He shrugged, to show that his point was finished, and took a gulp of his tea. It was a large mug, but it was still dwarfed by Bahorel’s fist.

Jehan reached to take his other hand, and stroked the tattooed patterns on it fondly. They’d gone to the tattoo artist together, and Jehan had asked for an intricate design of roses, that crept along his spine, across his shoulders and curled over to finish at his left collar bone. Bahorel had looked thoughtful for a moment, and said “Well, if you’re the roses, I better be the thorns.” Jehan ran his fingers along the rambling thorns that were inked across Bahorel’s knuckles and smiled to himself.

Enjolras had turned the tv off and said “You’re right. We need their actions, not their prayers, and it’s important that they know it.”

Grantaire had sighed from a corner “I think someone’s righteous justice senses are tingling.”

***

Since Bahorel’s Completion, Jehan had found Feuilly’s company the easiest. The others made too much of an effort to be normal around him. The day after it all happened, Feuilly had walked up to him and simply said “I already really fucking miss him.”

“Me too.” Jehan had replied, and they’d just held each other for a while, for as long as they needed, and ever since then they spent as many days as possible together. It was nice, just being in the presence of another person who knew exactly how badly you were hurting, and wasn’t afraid to acknowledge it. So far it had kept Jehan calm.

***

Today they are nonchalantly walking along winding streets and the air is thick around them. It tastes like iron on Jehan’s tongue. He likes summer storms, but Feuilly isn’t keen on rain, so they decide to head towards a little café on the main street, where, Jehan promises, “the crème pâtissière in the choux buns is the best in the world!”

Sure enough, the clouds soon break, and the rain falls, in thick and persistent. Feuilly puts his head down and walks a little faster, until he realises he’s walking alone. Turning around, he sees Jehan stood completely still, eyes blank and wide, the fingers of one hand pressed against his lips. The rain beats down with increasing vigour and Feuilly realises, as it soaks through his clothes, what Jehan must be thinking of. It’s such a hot day, and the rain is so warm that it could easily remind someone of being drenched in blood. Another person’s blood.

The image of Jehan’s lips reddened by bahorel’s blood fills his mind, and he begins to walk back towards his friend, breaking into a run as the panic rises in him, and suddenly Jehan’s screams are joining the cacophony of rain drops. People are staring. Three police officers are staring. He grabs Jehan and tries to cover him just as the first truncheon comes down.

***

Grantaire runs into a bus shelter as the rain begins, and his fingers tremble slightly as he tries to light a cigarette. They began rationing alcohol for the masses the week that Bahorel died. Everyone over 18 is allowed somewhere between ‘enough alcohol to ease the pain’ and ‘not drunk enough to incite violence’. But Grantaire doesn’t drink like an average person, and the rations don’t take borderline alcoholics into account. His fingers shake even more violently and he begins to reconsider the borderline part. The cigarette falls from his mouth onto the damp ground “Fuck it!”

He rummages in his bag and instead of finding another cigarette, he begins to roll a joint. It’s clumsily done, but it’ll do. He puts all of his concentration into lighting it, and feels victorious as he takes his first inhale. For now, the police haven’t clamped down on marijuana use any more than usual, and no-one’s around to see him in this weather. He wouldn’t particularly care if they were.

The rain continues to thrash against the roof of the shelter, and no matter where he stands there is a small leak to drip mossy rainwater on him. He’s hardly taken another inhale, when a familiar figure in a red coat runs in and shakes his hair violently. Grantaire giggles “You look like a bedraggled golden retriever.”

Enjolras glares at him, and says “Grantaire, are you seriously getting high in a bus shelter?”

“I was trying to, when you appeared.” He’s just about to take another drag when a large van speeds past them, drenching them in the dirty water of a large roadside puddle. Grantaire stares at the ruined joint in between his fingers “Shit! It’s useless now. It’s a fucking thirty kilometre zone, what the fuck was he thinking?”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow “I’m sorry that his law-breaking got in the way of your illegal habits.”

“Oh, shut up,” there’s no venom in the response, and he’s staring glumly at where his joint and cigarette now lay next to each other on the pavement, “what’re you following me for anyway?”

“I wasn’t, I was walking home when I saw you and decided I might as well shelter from this,” he gestures outwards, at the still pouring rain, “and I need to talk to you anyway.” He is serious now, and he faces Grantaire with conviction.

“What’ve I done now?”

There are muddy smudges on his pale cheeks, and Grantaire considers wiping them off, then Enjolras speaks “Why aren’t you getting tested?”

“What?” Grantaire folds his arms over his chest, refusing to meet Enjolras’ eye.

Enjolras’ voice becomes firmer, tinged with frustration, “You’ve disappeared every time we’ve all gone for testing. It’s been almost four weeks now and you need to go, it’s irresponsible, it’s-”

Grantaire looks up fiercely, “Just because I’m not going with all of you, it doesn’t mean that I’m not going at all, I am capable of doing some things for myself.”

“Why? Why go alone?” the sense of determination has left Enjolras and he just looks confused. _Like a fucking bedraggled puppy,_ thinks Grantaire.

Grantaire sighs “I can’t... I just can’t handle it. Waiting while that stupid voice tells all of the people I care about whether or not they’re close to death. I can barely deal with hearing it for myself.”

“You’re not... are you...” Enjolras grabs his arm and grips it tightly.

“No, no. I’m still at zero,” he laughs bitterly “aren’t we the lucky ones.”

They’re silent for a little while. Enjolras releases his arm and frowns. Grantaire can practically hear his mind ticking over ideas, and he braces himself for them.

Eventually, Enjolras looks up “Go with me.”

Grantaire wasn’t expecting that. A continuation of the lecture about his irresponsibility would have been far easier “What?”

“Just me and you, we can go together and...” he trails off, and there is another awkward silence, before he takes a deep breath and holds Grantaire’s hands in his “I want you to be there, if I find out that I’m completing. And I would like to be there if you ever find out, if you’ll let me.” he gives Grantaire a small, sad smile.

“Oh... okay. Thank you.” It sounds too casual, but he doesn’t know how else to say it. His chest is tight and words won’t form properly, so he just squeezes Enjolras’ hands. Suddenly Enjolras’ arms are wrapped tightly around him, and he’s forgotten how to breathe, but he can just about manage to hug back.

“Tomorrow, then? Is that okay?” Enjolras whispers.

“Yeah.” Everything is wrong with the world, but Enjolras wants _him_ to be the first one to know if he’s dying. Enjolras wants to know first if _he’s_ dying. It’s ugly and beautiful at the same time, and he can’t help but smile.

Enjolras’ phone rings from his pocket, and he pulls away reluctantly “Better check, just in case something’s up.”

“Yeah, sure. Of course.” Grantaire feels dazed. One syllable words are only just about manageable.

Enjolras smiles at him as he answers, but it soon vanishes “What? Feuilly, calm down, you’re not making sense... They _what_?” he’s furious now, his voice is steady, but his face has darkened with the look which always reminds Grantaire of a wrathful god. In these fleeting moments he’s pure, untamed Ares, before his logic regains its hold “I’m coming, we’re going to get you out.”

“Out of where, what’s happened?” Grantaire struggles to keep the panic out of his voice. Not anyone else, please, not now.

“Jehan had a panic attack. Attracted police attention. Truncheoned them both. They need bailing out.” Enjolras inhales sharply, nostrils flaring in anger “I’m going to call Combeferre and tell him to meet us there, you call a taxi.”

“Okay, but why do we need more people?”

Enjolras’ face has slipped into a strange, clam mask, and only his eyes show the anger boiling beneath “Because if I lose it when I see what the bastards have done, you’ll need help holding me back.”

Even though the rage isn’t directed at him, Grantaire can’t suppress the shiver that courses down his spine.

***

Later, when Enjolras has narrowly avoided arrest for screaming abuse at policemen (thanks to Grantaire clamping his hand over his mouth and dragging him back while Combeferre hastily paid the bail money), and Combeferre has taken Feuilly to hospital for concussion, they are sat in front of Enjolras’ small tv again, although this time it’s nothing but a black screen. Everything is Completion news, and they’re sick of it.

Feuilly received the worst of the truncheon blows. Jehan has mostly cuts and bruises, which Joly is quietly patching up. Jehan stares straight ahead; his hair is wild and several livid, purple bruises have bloomed on his face. Even the roses across his collar bone look wilted, beaten into submission. Grantaire is chewing his fingernails anxiously and Enjolras is trying to pace in the small kitchen which opens out onto the longue.

After a few minute, Courfeyrac and Bossuet walk in, Courfeyrac holding an old, floral jug, and Bossuet a bunch of white peonies. He takes the jug and fills it with water, before putting the flowers in and carrying them very carefully to the small table next to Jehan. Joly gets up, touching Bossuet’s arm lightly as he passes, before beginning to make more ice packs.

Courfeyrac kneels in front of Jehan and presses the finger tips of his right hand gently against the tattoo on Jehan’s collar bone. “I can’t give you thorns, Jehan, and I know that all the jugs of flowers in the world can’t make up for what you’ve lost, but I’ll be sat right next to you,” he smiles a little, and swallows back tears, taking Jehans hands in is and folding over all of his fingers except for the middle ones, “and we can stick our fingers up at gods, at the world, at _everything_.” He presses a kiss to Jehan’s forehead, then stretches out his arms towards the ceiling and raises his middle fingers “This one’s for you, Bahorel.”

Ever so slowly, Jehan raises his hands and imitates him. The rest all do the same, and it’s ridiculous and glorious, and they laugh through their tears. Jehan straightens his posture and takes a depth breath “For Bahorel!”

“For Bahorel!” they all vehemently repeat, and the echo of Bahorel’s laughter rings in their ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a while, I've got quite a lot written, but as I plan out more I have to chop and change bits, so it gets complicated. I want to have chapters focusing on other members of Les Amis as well, and sub-plots get confusing without lots of bullets points and who-did-what lists. In fact, I'm not completely sure who the main plot is with anymore, seeing as it started with Bahorel, and then I killed him off...
> 
> ANYWAY you guys don't want to read my inner monologues. Summary: there will be more, lots more, (featuring all of your favourite characters!) so give me time.
> 
> Come and say hello on [Tumblr](http://becominghistoric.tumblr.com/) :) I do angsty Grantaire poems and stuff too, it's all fun and games. (Although it's 98% fic, so you get to avoid the general crying-over-Grantaire that happens on my main blog.)
> 
> Also thank you to everyone who reads all of my drivel, I love you all, have some big virtual hugs etc.


	3. Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [A genetic mutation is spreading and affecting people across the world...]
> 
> Grantaire’s life has been stained red.  
> He tries to paint, but everything is red streaks of anger and fear.  
> And blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for blood, descriptions of death and vomiting.

Grantaire’s life has been stained red.

He tries to paint, but everything is red streaks of anger and fear.

And blood.

Blood, beading out of Madame Huchelop’s every pore.

Jehan’s lips painted in a gruesome clown’s smile with Bahorel’s blood.

The blood of the small child he saw complete.

***

Grantaire was lighting a cigarette, watching people walking along lazily in the summer heat. It was quiet, apart from the odd lethargic murmur of conversation drifting past him. So, when the screams of the girl’s father pierced the air, Grantaire dropped his cigarette in shock. Before he had registered what he was doing, his legs were carrying him forward, and he was crouched next to the man, rubbing comforting circles on his back. It was then he learned that not everyone dropped dead immediately when they completed. Some twitched and writhed, and the small girl in front of him flapped in her father’s arms like a suffocating fish. It was ugly and undignified. As she thrashed, her blood splashed across his cheeks. He felt the heat of vomit threatening to rise in his throat.

Other people had gathered around now. Most watched in alarm from a slight distance, but one woman who knew the man approached. At this, Grantaire gripped the man’s shoulder one last time, nodded at the woman, and then turned away. As soon as he was around the nearest corner, he broke into a run. He didn’t know where he was going, he just needed to get away. He rubbed at the blood, but it just smeared his hands, working into the grooves of his finger prints, getting underneath his nails.

He stopped when every breath felt like it was ripping holes in his lungs, and realised that he wasn’t too far from where Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Combeferre lived. He desperately needed to wash the blood from his hands and face, so he headed in the direction of their flat, praying that someone would be in.

Enjolras had clearly been about to go out, because when he answered Grantaire’s frantic hammering against the door, he was wearing his red jacket. The deep scarlet was too much for Grantaire, and he pushed past and ran to the small bathroom, just making it in time to heave the contents of his stomach into the toilet. Enjolras followed a few seconds later, now without his jacket, and rubbed Grantaire’s back soothingly. This had only reminded Grantaire of his attempts to comfort the dying girl’s father, and huge, aching sobs had torn along his windpipe. Enjolras had said nothing, just picked up a flannel and gently cleaned the blood from Grantaire’s face and hands.

***

Grantaire feels sick again, but this time it’s with nerves. Or possibly it’s the bus driver’s particularly haphazard method of swinging around corners. He knows that Enjolras went with their other friends to the testing ward this morning, but only for support. It’s the first time they’re both going alone together. Grantaire still can’t quite believe it.

When the driver pulls up to his stop with squealing breaks, Enjolras is waiting for him in the bus shelter. He’s wearing a dull grey jacket today. He hasn’t been seen wearing the red one since the vomiting incident.  Grantaire smiles weakly at him and says “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.” Enjolras laughs, although it’s tinged with nervous energy, and they walk the short distance to the centre.

“Is everyone else-” Grantaire hesitates.

“Yes, everyone was at zero.” Enjolras replies, and the twisting in Grantaire’s gut lessens for a brief moment, until they reach the door and the sense of dread kicks in with a vengeance.

It’s the middle of the week, so it’s fairly quiet, and they don’t have to queue for a scanner. They walk to the far end of the rows of machinery, away from the few scanners that are in use. The corridor turns to the right and goes further, leading to private booths, where you don’t have to have your Completion status announced to the room, but they require booked appointments now, due to their popularity.

Grantaire shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other “So, who goes first?”

“I will, if you like.” Enjolras is staring at the machine like a soldier heading off for a war he doesn’t believe in.

“Um, okay. Please.”

Enjolras pulls his authorisation card out of his pocket, and scans it. The cards were allocated to everyone when the test centres opened, so the government can keep tabs on how many people are using them, as well as how many future fatalities are walking the streets. The machine registers it with a cheerful beep and says “Last status: zero percent complete.” It’s a white pole, about seven feet high and no wider than a street lamp. The simplicity of it makes it even more sinister to Grantaire.  Enjolras stands with his back to it, and the thin, blue strip which runs down the centre of the pole lights up. The machine hums as a blue line of light runs gently from the crown of Enjolras’ head to his feet. “Computing.” informs the machine. It takes a few seconds and Grantaire is about to kick it, when it chimes out “Zero percent complete.”

They both exhale with relief, and Grantaire would be tempted to dance for joy, if it wasn’t his turn next. Some of the tension leaves Enjolras’ shoulders as he steps away, but it soon returns when Grantaire scans his own card. His face is stiff and unreadable as they wait for the verdict. The seconds drag on.

After a tense minute the machine begins to emit a series of shrill beeps. Grantaire can’t breathe. Enjolras balls his hands into fists “What the fuck does that mean?”

He’s answered by a young, dark-haired nurse who has made her way swiftly along the corridor at the sound “Sorry, it’s nothing to do with your Completion status. Bloody thing, it’s done this twice already. I told them, but they won’t listen, not unless you’ve got any power higher up.” She sighs and pulls a pad of post-it notes from her pocket “You’re going to have to use another scanner and start again, I really am sorry. Looks like I’ll have to sort this out myself.” She’s scrawled _OUT OF ORDER!_ and underlined it several times onto one of the notes, which she sticks across the machine’s card scanner.

“Don’t they have official regulations for this sort of thing?” asks Enjolras, looking slightly dazed, mostly due to the fact that he can’t remember the last time a member of nursing staff treated him, or any of his friends, like human beings.

“Probably, but they don’t bother to tell us them. If anything like this ever happens again, can you let me know?” She writes her number and name onto one of the notes and hands it to Enjolras “If I can get enough members of the public to give them hell about it, they’ll probably panic and do something. Not that you have to, it’s just... people don’t deserve to have the shittiness of this experience added to, y’know?”

“No, you’re right. Of course, I’ll keep hold of this.” he reads the name on the paper “Thanks, Musichetta.”

“No problem. Anyway, I’ll leave you to it.” She smiles at them both, holding up her hands with her fingers crossed, then walks away.

Grantaire has hardly registered the conversation. He just about manages to move to the next machine and begin the entire process again. Enjolras takes his hand this time, as they wait for the result, and Grantaire feels like teetering on the brink between potential life or death isn’t so bad with that hand in his.

“Zero percent complete.”

Air rushes back into Grantaire’s lungs and he gasps involuntarily. Enjolras is beaming, and he grips Grantaire’s hand even tighter as he pulls him away “Come on, let’s get out of here.” All Grantaire can do in response is nod.

They rush out of the building and run most of the way to a small, quiet café a few streets away. At the back of Grantaire’s mind, he can’t help feeling like they’re still only just out of the reach of death’s grasp. Running breathlessly towards life for at least another week. They stop just outside and Grantaire realises that he’s trembling.  Enjolras notices as well “Grantaire? We’re okay. It’s okay.”

“It’s not though, is it?” he looks down, and screws up his face, willing the hot tears that are welling up to stop.

“No.” Enjolras manages to fill one word with such forcefully honest compassion that Grantaire almost laughs, and resists the urge to mutter ‘typical’, but Enjolras has pulled him into a hug, and suddenly he's finding it difficult to make his lungs work again. “It’s not okay, and I want to try and do something about that. I want to stop them clamping down on the things that we love, and providing us with substandard test centres and treatment. You know they just give out high strength antidepressants now? Even group grief counselling wouldn’t have been that difficult to organise, but no, they just feed everyone with pills to numb them and–” he pauses “Sorry, R.” he pulls back to look at Grantaire, whose face has been buried in his shoulder and is now tear stained and blotchy, and takes his chin “but what’s important now is that we celebrate the fact that we still have time for all of those things.”

“We don’t know how much longer, though. Not really. It could be never, it could be next week.”

“Which is why I’m concentrating on making the most of everything else that's important, while I know I still can.” He smiles cautiously, suddenly shy, then kisses Grantaire quickly on the cheek. Grantaire looks at the faint blush spreading across Enjolras’ cheeks, and thinks that maybe red isn’t always such an awful colour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long! I had exams and general life stuff to sort out, but hopefully you won't wait as long for the next chapter. Thank you so much to everyone who's subscribed/given kudos etc :)
> 
> Let me know if there's a character you'd like to see more of. I have so many subplots, I'm trying to cut down so the fic doesn't go on forever, but if you're interested in a specific character's story, please tell me! You can message me on [Tumblr](http://becominghistoric.tumblr.com/) if for any reason you want it to be anonymous.
> 
> Also, tell me if I mention something about the whole Completion thing that I've forgotten to explain/you want clearing up - it's easy to forget that not everyone can see the little universe inside your head!


End file.
